CHAPTER XVIII

THE END OF A DREAM

Dinner that evening was a curious meal, partly constrained,
partly enlivened by strange little bursts of attempted
geniality on the part of the professor. Mr. Bomford
told long and pointless stories with much effort and
the air of a man who would have made himself agreeable
if he could. Edith leaned back in her chair,
eating very little, her eyes large, her cheeks pale.
She made her escape as soon as possible and Burton
watched her with longing eyes as he passed out into
the cool darkness. He half rose, indeed, to follow
her, but his host and Mr. Bomford both moved their
chairs so that they sat on either side of him.
The professor filled the glasses with his own hand.
It was his special claret, a wonderful wine, the cobwebbed
bottle of which, reposing in a wicker cradle, he handled
with jealous care.

“Mr. Burton,” he began, settling down
in his chair, “we have been unjust to you, Mr.
Bomford and I. We apologize. We ask your forgiveness.”

“Unjust?” Burton murmured.

“Unjust,” the professor repeated.
“I allude to this with a certain amount of shame.
We made you an offer of a thousand pounds for a portion
of that—­er—­peculiar product to
which you owe this wonderful change in your disposition.
We were in the wrong. We had thoughts in our
mind which we should have shared with you. It
was not fair, Mr. Burton, to attempt to carry out
such a scheme as Mr. Bomford here had conceived, without
including you in it.” The professor nodded
to himself, amiably satisfied with his words.
Burton remained mystified. Mr. Bomford took up
the ball.

“We yielded, Mr. Burton,” he said, “to
the natural impulse of all business men. We tried
to make the best bargain we could for ourselves.
A little reflection and—­er—­your
refusal of our offer, has brought us into what I trust
you will find a more reasonable frame of mind.
We wish now to treat you with the utmost confidence.
We wish to lay our whole scheme before you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Burton
declared, a little wearily. “You want one
of my beans, for which you offered a certain sum of
money. I am sorry. I would give you one
if I could, but I cannot spare it. They are all
that stand between me and a relapse into a state of
being which I shudder to contemplate. Need we
discuss it any further? I think, if you do not
mind—­”

He half rose to his feet, his eyes were searching
the shadows of the garden. The professor pulled
him down.

“Be reasonable, Mr. Burton—­be reasonable,”
he begged. “Listen to what Mr. Bomford
has to say.”

Mr. Bomford cleared his throat, scratched his chin
for a moment thoughtfully, and half emptied his glass
of claret.

“Our scheme, my young friend,” He said
condescendingly, “is worthy even of your consideration.
You are, I understand, gifted with some powers of
observation which you have turned to lucrative account.
It has naturally occurred to you, then, in your studies
of life, that the greatest accumulations of wealth
which have taken place during the present generation
have come entirely through discoveries, which either
nominally or actually have affected the personal well-being
of the individual. Do I make myself clear?